


War of Hearts

by AbigailKinney4life



Category: The War Of The Worlds (UK TV 2019)
Genre: Allusions to Violence, Arnie has anger issues, Choking, Coitus Interruptus, Discrimination, Dom Arnold Henderson, Dom/sub, Dry Humping, Edwardian Period, F/M, Humiliation, I'm sure I'll think of more, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering, sub Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29949432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailKinney4life/pseuds/AbigailKinney4life
Summary: You begin an internship at The London Evening Chronicle, Mr Henderson is a complicated man. D/S relationship.
Relationships: Arnold Henderson/Female Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. You meet Mr Henderson

**Author's Note:**

> This is a porny Arnie x Reader because this man is my husband and a Dom waiting to be set free, please enjoy :)
> 
> I'm also posting on tumblr www.consultingskeletondetective.tumblr.com

_One – You meet Mr Henderson_

Your parents disapprove, but they often do, so you don’t dwell on it.

You’re a strong, independent woman and there was no reason you couldn’t have a job just as countless other women did, just because Mother and Father would have preferred you to stay within their doors until you married, did not mean that was the life you had to choose. You wanted the freedom to make your own choices, so when you’d been offered the internship with _The London Evening Chronicle_ , one of the most prestigious newspapers in the city, you had accepted with glee.

It was the same glee that you wore on your face as you step into the offices of _The London Evening Chronicle_ for the first time. You flatten the front of your plain dress and adjust the hairpin fastening your curls into place nervously. You don’t feel especially elegant, but _proper_ : a working woman.

The head of the newspaper, the charming but forthright Mr. Greaves, greets you at the door and gives you a tore of the stuffy and crowded office. The lights are dark and muted over row after row of desks jam-packed with flyaway paper and typewriters and inkwells, the walls are decorated with large maps and award after award after award so scarcely a hint of wallpaper can be seen. There is an indescribable layer of dust in the air and you cough politely into the back of your hand as you listen intently to Mr. Greaves explaining the day-to-day running’s of the office and your duties therein.

Truthfully, you find yourself a little overwhelmed by everything around you, a certain level of claustrophobia sets in, but you don’t let it show. The clack of typewriters and the loud, bustling and serious conversation of men is new to you, but you would get used to it, there was nothing here that you weren’t expecting.

“And this is Mr Arnold Henderson, our senior political journalist,” Mr. Greaves announces, and you turn to him, startled. “Henderson, meet your new intern, she will be your charge for the duration of her service.”

Arnold Henderson stops in front of you and you wonder where he even appeared from in the large office. He holds his hands politely behind his back as he regards you with a stiff nod and a stoic expression. He is tall and lean, and dressed impeccably in a dark suit sans jacket, stripped down to just his white shirt and waistcoat. A silver chain to a pocket watch glints against the dark fabric and immediately you know that it is more expensive than your parents’ entire house. He has a handsome, if somewhat tired, face. The lines under his eyes seem permanently etched there from long hours and stressful working conditions. His hair is brown and painstakingly parted and his eyes, which had appeared light blue and doleful just a moment before, harden to ice just as you hold your hand out to him.

“N-nice to make your acquaintance, Mr Henderson.” You stutter out your greeting, utterly perturbed and shocked by the _fury_ just the sight of you seems to have ignited on his handsome face.

Even through the white sleeves of his starched shirt, you can see the tendons in his muscles flexing as if in resistance as he forces his hand robotically towards you.

“The pleasure is all mine, my lady.” His voice is as stiff and controlled as the rest of him and you can’t help but swallow as you take his unwillingly offered hand gently. His hand dwarfs yours completely and it’s like touching fire. His grip is lax and loose, as if making a conscious effort to adjust his shake for your delicate hand, but still a jolt travels through your wrist and a small, surprised noise escapes you.

“I shall leave you both to get better acquainted.” Greaves smiles before promptly disappearing back to his own business, leaving you alone with the intimidating and _angry_ presence of Mr Henderson.

“Please.” He nods stiffly in the other direction as his hands return to their position safely clasped behind his back and he makes no efforts to move, simply waiting for you to walk ahead of him, as was customary. You do so, and in doing so, do not see his eyes travelling the expanse of your figure for the barest second before he coughs and you almost wince at the sound of it. Perhaps it was because of your sex, and Mr Henderson believed that only men should be working at the newspaper, perhaps that was why he disliked you so much. You resolve immediately to change his opinion with honest, hard work.

He leads you into his office and smooths the front of his waistcoat as he takes his seat behind his desk and offers with his hand for you to take the chair opposite. He moves fluidly and consciously, and you wish you were less nervous and jerky as you take the proffered seat. Whereas the desks outside had been cluttered and chaotic, Mr Henderson’s office was neat and organised, it calms you.

He regards you for the longest time with those blue eyes and you feel heat flush your cheeks. You want to initiate some sort of conversation, perhaps about his expectations of you, but you know this isn’t your place, so you remain silent. The sound of the ticking clock fills the room.

Finally, he leans forwards, placing his elbows on the desk. His broad shoulders flex as he keeps that harsh and studious glare firmly on you. It makes you feel small and strangely breakable.

“I am a very particular man.” He finally says, his eyes glancing down at your neck for a moment before returning to your blushing cheeks. “I like things to be done in a certain way and to a certain standard, I trust you appreciate this.”

“Of course, yes, sir.” You find your voice and lean instinctively forwards, towards him, as you clasp your hands together in your lap. “I assure you; I shall be the most attentive intern you have ever had.”

Something close to a smile passes over his lips, as if sharing a dark joke with himself that you’re not privy to, and he leans back in his chair.

“I take my coffee black, and at 10am every morning, you’ll do well to remember it.” He waves his hand to dismiss you and you try not to swallow again, try not to be offended at his dismissive attitude and his obvious lack of faith in your character. You will prove him wrong.

“Yes, Mr Henderson, sir.” You manage to say, rising from your seat. The clock on the wall shows the time to be 9.45am and you busy yourself with preparing his coffee and bringing it to him.

When you return to his office, Mr Henderson is bent over his desk, his face close to the page as he writes line after line of elegant script. You still behind him as you watch ink glide elegantly over parchment and your head cocks as the coffee mug goes lax in your hand. He turns sharply to you and you back away in shock, the mug slipping from your fingers and dark liquid spills out across his desk.

He rises fluidly to his full height as if a string had been snapped, so close to you that his knees brush the front of your skirt, and you momentarily share the same air as he _glares_ down at you.

“Insolent _girl_.” It is nearly a growl that escapes his mouth. “This will not do.” His piercing and penetrating gaze reaches your very soul and your breath escapes you shakily.

“I’m sorry, sir.” You manage to stammer quietly. “I was distracted, I…please forgive me.”

He is silent for a long while as he calms himself, and you wonder what he could possibly be thinking, before the hardness in his eyes subsists a little and his jaw flexes.

“Clean this up, now if you will, and fetch me a fresh cup.” His lips twitch as he sits back down. “And try not to spill it this time.”

“No, sir, yes, sir.” Your hands tremble as you retrieve the upturned coffee mug and hold it to your front as you move away from the desk to retrieve a cloth and brew a fresh cup, wondering how you’ve managed to make such silly mistakes on your first day.

You glance back at him by the doorway, but Mr Henderson is not looking at you, his attentions are fully returned to his work as he bends over his desk and an errant strand of hair threatens to escape his neat parting. He smooths it back into place quickly and efficiently.

He seems to you a stoic, stressed, mean and rather temperamental sort of man, and you wonder why your gaze lingers on him for just longer than necessary before you quiet your heartbeat and leave his office.


	2. You and Mr Henderson work late at the office

_Two - You and Mr Henderson work late at the office_

You ardently wished that Mr Henderson’s attitude towards you would mellow the longer you spent in each other’s company, but you were sorely mistaken.

Weeks passed by like a monotonous death rattle as you spent hours at a time alone with the disagreeable journalist, which was the only time you had spent alone with a man who wasn’t your father. Mr Henderson’s company interested you in the way all new things did, there was something stiff about the way he conducted himself, and you could scarce ignore the sweet and musky waft of his aftershave as it drifted towards you in the small office, or the soft, spoken words as he dictated letters that you wrote in a pale imitation of his own beautiful hand. It was these quiet moments that made you forget, just for a moment, that he abhorred you.

Every day you brought him his coffee at 10am on the dot and every day he ignored you as you did so, he ignored _everything_ as he pressed his hair from his eyes as he worked tirelessly on article after article, oftentimes remaining in the office for far longer than necessary until it was just the two of you and he quite forgot to dismiss you for the day. You knew you could leave at 5PM with everyone else, of course, but you didn’t dare to speak and break the silence as he concentrated with his brow furrowed and his blue eyes narrowed, it was the only time of day that he didn’t look tired.

It was one such evening, when the lights in the main office were dim and everything was unusually silent, that you busy yourself with cleaning Mr Henderson’s desk as neatly and as particularly as you’d become accustomed to. You know he won’t thank you and you wish you don’t care but you do, there was something odd and strangely masochistic about dedicating such pleasantries to a man who saw you as nothing more than a footstool or a hatstand. You allow yourself a wry smile as you straighten Mr Henderson’s fountain pens in size order; your parents were wrong. This job was preparing you for marriage as much as any governess would.

The door squeaks open behind you, but you don’t turn to look up. Silence fills the office, and you wonder if it was breeze that disturbed the door until:

“What are you still doing here?”

You turn to see Mr Henderson stood in the doorway to his office. He’s stripped down, as is often his way, to his white shirt and waist coat. It’s a seasonably warm spring day, even in the evening, and his tie has long since been tugged down, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his collar sags low against his chest, revealing just the curl of dark hair beneath and it makes you blush. He has one hand lax on the door handle, the other tight around a sheaf of paperwork that would be too heavy for you to carry in both of your hands.

You straighten yourself and swallow as you turn to him fully, hoping you haven’t angered him by staying late again.

“I was straightening your desk, Mr Henderson, sir.” You grasp your hands by your hips and bow your head a little as he steps into the office and the door shuts with a _bang_ that makes you wince.

“It is gone 7PM.” He reminds you as he makes his way to his desk, a disinterested sigh in his voice. “Do you not have more interesting evening plans than disrupting the order of my desk? Perhaps a…gentleman caller?”

He keeps his head bowed as he spreads the paperwork in his hands neatly across his desk and the question makes your blush deepen. It’s entirely inappropriate for him to ask such a thing of you, and to concern himself with your _romantic_ affairs.

“I do not.” You tell him steadfastly. “My only focus is to assist you, sir.”

His eyes snap up to yours and it startles you. A breath escapes you as his hard gaze bores into you and you shrink back unthinkingly, your eyes searching the carpets as you wonder what error you’ve made. You feel, rather than see, his gaze shift back to his work and your shoulders relax slightly.

“You may go.” He says stiffly and it sounds like a command. “It is evening, and you have no reason to stay as long as I.”

“Neither should you, sir.” You venture boldly, approaching the desk and pressing the tips of your fingers delicately against the varnished wood, mere inches from where his broad hands are neatly stacking page after page of script. Your eyes linger on the thick veins that skewer the backs of his hands and something _twinges_ in your gut. It is a feeling you don’t recognise. You always used to associate strong men with protection, just like your father, but Mr Henderson’s strength intimidates you, as if you fear him using it against you one day, but you do not fear him. In truth, you can’t pinpoint exactly how it is you feel about him. He’s an unpleasant, ungrateful and absorbed individual and you should probably dislike him, but your heart just isn’t in it. They are skin-deep qualities. Something lurks below.

“Perhaps you should retire for the evening, I believe you have earned it.”

He ignores you.

“Or…perhaps permit me to stay a little longer? I am certain we will complete this work in half the time and-”

“Will you not give me a moment without you, woman?” He thunders, papers fluttering under his hands as his hard glare hits you with _violence_. All the breath leaves your body as you watch the tendons in his neck shudder against his heavy breathing, under the _exertion_ it takes to keep himself calm. His fists clench against the desk, the muscles in his bare forearms bounce as he stills himself.

“I’m sorry, sir.” You say feebly. “I was just trying to help.”

“Every day I must come into this office and sit beside you, every day I dread it.” His voice is hard and thunderous. “Is this not cruel enough? Must you fill even my restful hours with your presence?”

Tears prick your eyes as the magnitude of his _loathing_ for you makes itself known and a small and unladylike hiccup escapes you as you wipe your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr Henderson…had I known…” Your shoulders quake. “Perhaps I should assist one of the other journalists from now on, or…m-maybe retire my position, if I am so abhorrent to you.”

“Abhorrent?” He stands straight, stiff as a post, his eyes wild and disbelieving. “Are you really trying to play coy with me, young lady? Would you dishonour me by standing there and pretending like none of this has been deliberate? Your glances, your perfume, your _damned_ dresses…is it not enough that I am tortured by your presence? Now you wish me to be tortured without it?”

You stand breathless as words fail you and you gaze, uncomprehendingly, upon Mr Henderson’s handsome face, trying to marry his words with his actions and coming up blank.

“Mr Henderson,” Your lips tremble. “I…I don’t understand. I haven’t been…I’m not trying to…” You blush and stammer as you smooth your skirts nervously, trying to understand his accusation, his _confession_. “I believed you had the most ardent dislike for me from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“It is quite the contrary, my lady.” His voice sounds _soft_ for the first time since making his acquaintance, his broad shoulders slumping as he rubs his tired eyes. He swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing beneath his collar and you follow it with your eyes. You don’t know if you’re still crying, but the man in front of you stands in turmoil and you put him there.

“I am sorry, sir.”

“ _Stop apologising_.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, but you shrink back regardless. You don’t understand if he enjoys your presence or hates it.

“Sir, I don’t know what to do, how to make you happy or what you desire, if I did…”

“I desire you.”

The impropriety and shock of such a statement leaves you dumbfounded, and you can’t do anything but stare at him as he smooths his collar, adjusts his tie and clasps his hands behind his back, devolving back into the stoic and collected man you’ve become accustomed to. But there’s something new there as well, a newfound intimacy. A _delight_ that, you might be making Mr Henderson happy, which is all you’ve wanted since you met him.

“I should leave.”

“No.”

You blink and your lips quiver and it’s like you solidify to the spot under his order. Your gaze is almost fearful as you meet his and as usual, his expression betrays nothing. You have no idea what his intentions are, or what you want them to be, but you don’t leave. You want, you realise with a shudder, what he wants.

“I desire you to lift up your skirts and reveal yourself to me.”

Your hands tremble violently at such an unsavoury request, but it doesn’t turn your stomach as you expected it to. Instead, a strange _warmth_ fills you at his cold but needing words.

“But, sir, my…my virtue…” You stammer out, as if that was any defence against the power Mr Henderson surely knows he holds over you.

“And it shall remain intact.” He offers nothing else as he looks at you, the barest twitch of his lips the only movement as his eyes stay trained on you. The warm feeling in your gut only intensifies under his gaze.

“Sir, I…” Your modesty protests.

“I said, show me.”

You swallow heavily, your cheeks dusted with red, and you shudder as tears spill down your cheeks just at the _thought_ of reducing yourself to a harlot, a _whore_ , for his amusement. Mr Henderson’s penetrating gaze remains firmly on you and your hands fall; he is your undoing. His happiness is linked to your own, somehow, and denying him what he wants, and the prospect of seeing his handsome face twisted in sadness and anger, leaves an empty feeling in your gut.

Your hands fall to your skirts and his gaze follows and that warmth in your gut descends lower still, and you realise that you enjoy the way he looks at you, you enjoy the way he degrades you.

“Turn around.” The words are spoken softly, emotionlessly, and you shake as you slowly turn, facing the door and showing your back to Mr Henderson. You don’t like that you can’t see him, it makes you feel alone, like you’re doing this for anyone.

“Good girl.” His praise, his deep voice, cuts across the room and envelopes you in warmth and your tense body relaxes as you slowly, shamefully, draw your long skirts up your legs, revealing your sheer stockings inch by inch, until you’re bunching them at your waist and showing the fabric of your undergarments, a sight only a husband should see.

He is silent but you feel his gaze on you, you know he is looking at where you are bare for him, your most intimate area exposed, and he takes it all. Tears drip down your face and warmth spreads through the lower half of your body and you shudder as you feel an indescribable _stickiness_ gather in your undergarments and the shame skyrockets because surely, Mr Henderson can see it too? He must think you’re nothing but a harlot.

“Look at me.”

You follow his orders, not letting your skirts fall because you haven’t been told to, and he keeps his gaze on your crotch, where the white fabric clings to your core with soaking heat. His jaw is set, his neck red beneath the white fabric of his collar and his lips twitch, as if _caging_ something inside himself.

“You may cover yourself.”

You let your skirts fall but it does nothing to hide the shame on your face and your legs tremble, nearly threatening to give out.

He clears his throat.

“I shall endeavour to control my desires, for both of our sakes.” His voice is ragged, his hands falling to his sides but his eyes staying on you. “But you are not to show anyone else what you have just shown me, do I make myself clear?”

You’ve no idea how to tell him there _is_ no one else but him, so you settle on a gentle nod.

“Yes, Mr Henderson, sir.”

“Good girl.” The praise, the affectionate moniker, the _gravelly_ tones penetrate you deeply. “You may retire for the evening.”

“I cannot assist you further?” It’s easier than to admit you don’t want to leave his side, and, as if in reward, he favours you with a soft smile.

“You have already assisted me tremendously, my lady.”


End file.
